Emily Barton-Romanoff: How She Lost Her Mind
by SupernaturAvengers24
Summary: The daughter of Hawkeye and Black Widow (OC: hawkeyedwoman on tumblr) runs into Loki, the god of Mischief, Chaos and Lies, finding herself trapped with nowhere left to hide. (Rated T for swearing, torture, and minor gore. Dark in the beginning. Fluffier as the chapters go on)
1. Chapter 1

Gathering fathomless thoughts from the very core of her mind, the daughter of the Hawk and the Widow drifted through the empty streets, slicing through the tendrils of smoggy darkness that filled the chilled night air, the dim flickering streetlight piercing weakly through bits of blackness spilling fine wisps of light into the sidewalk. The young assassin had been walking home after a long day at SHIELD, training her butt off so that she could impress her parents and hopefully earn the full title Agent-Assassin-Spy at last. Unfortunately, it was _far_ more difficult than she anticipated. Fury didn't quite approve of a young woman of only eighteen taking on such an enormous responsibility, and all the mountainous weight of her parents' fame already rested on her shoulders as if she were trying to support the world on them. She sat down hard on the bench, slowly burying her face into the pallid palms of her hands so she could clear her hazy, stressed mind. Honestly, Emily didn't really care whether or not her parents would be angry with her for being out so late at night. It was better than that one time where she went to one of Uncle Tony's parties at Stark Tower when she was sixteen. In fact, _every_ troubled situation she got into was probably better than when she visited Stark Tower during one of his huge late-night celebrations. Her parents never trusted either of them again after that.

Suddenly, after sitting there for quite some time, the subtle, cryptic sound of footsteps filled her ears. They were slow yet deliberate, barely audible but echoing heavily through her eardrums all the same, thick with the prominent crunch of boots. Male, she assumed. Possibly having an ego? Glancing up slowly, her watchful, prismatic eyes identical to those of both her father's and her mother's scanned warily over the ominous figure, sensing the hard, icy, peridot gaze she had become all too fearful of in the first place.

_It was Loki._

Her heart caught in her chest before hammering harshly against her ribs, horror flashing in her eyes as every muscle in her body seemed to freeze like a raindrop falling into a snowstorm. He was the very object of her parents' nightmares, the one she'd been told not to go after no matter what, the one she'd been told to run from the minute she laid eyes on him for the first time. The demigod-slash-frost giant was powerful, far more powerful than anything she'd faced before, and she knew he was capable of abhorrent things. And yet she couldn't gather the strength to run, couldn't say a word as he took a step out of the shadows, watching with widened eyes as his lips twisted, contorted into a feral smile. Finally gathering the courage, the agent began to conceal her growing fear with an impassive facade, one she'd used many times when emotion was simply something she couldn't reveal.

As Loki stepped completely out of the shadows and into the light she rose quickly from the bench, her breathing grown rugged and strenuous as she dared a shaky, small step back, palms closing around the hilt of one of her wickedly curved throwing daggers as she gazed, unblinking at the Trickster, eyes locked in a fierce gaze with his. It took all of her strength to hide her overwhelming, growing fear with a relatively empty expression cast over her colorless features on instinct. Perhaps if she could only hide her fearfulness towards him, that one disadvantage, one weakness, then he might possibly leave her alone. This was what she kept telling herself, though she knew how every ounce of it had been nothing but lies.

"What do you want from me?"

The question spilled hastily from her mouth with far more emotion than she had intended to reveal to him, a slight tremble in her voice as she took another gradual step back, her gaze wandering from his cruel smile from his towering stance to his cruelly curved scepter, gleaming sinfully and threateningly in the slightly illuminated blackness as she saw his grin begin to spread through her peripheral vision at the clear dread and panic in her tone.

"What do I want from you? Oh, I believe you already know the answer to that, spiderling." He purred, the words flowing smoothly over his tongue and seeping into her ears, sending cold chills down her spine to jump across her skin in the form of frigid goosebumps. "I simply request information."

As her blood ran cold Emily's vibrantly prismatic eyes shimmered brilliantly against her fiery locks of hair, piercing through the darkness and illuminating everything around her as a light wind swept the autumn leaves off of the ground to drift back down again. As soon as her panic and dread began to bleed through her vacant facade, her mask of fallacious nonchalance, resentment quickly followed suit; her eyes flickered like the avaricious flames of a wildfire with animosity and tempestuousness, her glare icy and piercing as her cadaverous palms curled into tight, white-knuckled fists. "Bite me." She snarled through the tight, clenched set of her jaw, the left side of her nose twitching in pure loathing.

"Oh," He faked a slight pout. "that is so…_not_ what I wanted to hear from you." In a flash he vanished, only to appear just behind her. "I am a god, you insufficient little wench. Your pathetic mortal weapons have no affect on me." He hissed low and menacing into her ear, his raven hair falling around his shoulders as he wrenched her wrist into his grasp, twisting it until her blade slipped between her fingers with a series of sharp clatters against the pavement. "I'm sure you don't want me to have to pry the information from you the hard way." The god threatened grimly, keeping her arm twisted backwards against her upper back as he forced his scepter, glistening with glints of vibrant gold and sapphire to her opaque throat, pressing lightly yet threateningly against the tender pale skin. She gave a shaky, mocking laugh, lifting her chin as the blade dug into the sensitive skin of her neck below it. "You think that's really going to work on me?" Another peal of jeering laughter. "Please. I'll watch hell freeze over before giving in to _you_." The girl spat fiercely, the sting of blood pricking her skin like tiny needles as it slowly began to run steadily down her throat in a slender ribbon.

But, little did he know, Emily had a backup plan.

In that moment she drove her other blade, the one the god hadn't known about, deep into Loki's slender, bony hand where bundles of delicate nerves gathered there, exposed just underneath a thin, sinewy layer of skin stretched intricately over them like parchment. Emily emitted a sharp, strangled cry as a loud crack sounded from her wrist as it snapped suddenly from the force of Loki's reactive blow, contorted at a revolting angle as she swiftly tore herself from his oddly vice-like grip. Both with tight clenched jaws, gritted teeth and pursed lips they circled each other, concealing their pain as each sized up the other, like two animals preparing for a fight to the very death.

Surely this wasn't his intention, nor part of his plan, she figured. He probably wanted to see what she was made of, to see just how skilled and highly trained the daughter of the Hawk the Black Widow really was.

And that was exactly what she wanted to show him; how underestimation could be a killer.

Instantaneously the girl sensed a charge of surging power beginning to emanate gradually from the shining core of Loki's scepter, glowing a deeper, brighter blue as it gradually began to expand. All at once, the force of the blast shook the ground beneath her feet as it was thrust in her direction, advancing towards her center mass like a freight train. As soon as she felt the earthquake-like vibration, it was already piercing through the air, probably sensing the heat she gave off. Luckily her sharp instincts came into play at the right time and the young woman hit the ground hard, dismissing the sharp pain that shot through her nerves as she whipped her body away from him before quickly getting to her feet, drawing her bow and loading an arrow from the quiver splayed across her back. Taking aim at the weak spot in his armour her fingertips released the arrow with a steady hand, watching it slice through the air in a graceful arc towards him. Immediately it was deflected easily by the god, as if effortless. He almost seemed to scoff at her for a moment before drawing his scepter back recurrently, this time advancing on her before she had the chance to grab another arrow. Instead she dropped her bow, grabbing her long, double-sided blade that seemed to match the size of his scepter as she deflected his intended blow, twisting the lethal blade away from her vulnerable flesh before driving it in the direction of his exposed neck. He used his scepter to deflect her attack with a deafening radiance of nonchalance emanating from him in waves as he twisted her own blade from her grasp.

In that moment she drove the heel of her own boot up, knocking the gleaming scepter out of his hands before landing another hard kick, this time to the sensitive lining of his jaw. He caught hold of her foot in the split second that it remained in midair and gripped it tightly, jerking it violently in a half-circle in the hopes that she would fall, or dislocate her knee. Instead she let him whip her into a twisting layout where she landed, shockingly unharmed, before slamming her boot into his jaw with her other foot. She heard a snarling hiss of pain from within Loki's throat and he instead grasped her by the throat with both hands, closing them in tight around her windpipe as he made them vanish, instead reappearing in front of an abandoned warehouse.

Emily clawed frantically at his fingers, the air slowly seeping out of her lungs as a rosy hue due to lack of air slowly spilled over her surprised features. Still grasping her by the throat he slammed her into the wall before conjuring binds from the thin, murky air around them, chaining her to the wall as she struggled for air. "This is not how I wanted the night to go…" His voice carried a bit of a singsongy tone to it, making it all the more fear-inducing as he eventually let go of her neck and paced around the space in front of her, as if contemplating what to do. Air began to fill her lungs once more and she gasped gratefully, greedily sucking in every bit of sweet oxygen she could in a few gulps as the cadaverous sheen that once covered her face started to creep over her features once more.

"How brave the little child of the two killers thinks herself to be…and yet, how foolish is the source of her pride. You weak, pathetic little _mortal_, think you are strong enough to spit in the face of a _god_ and get away with it." He snarled, anger burning brightly in his eyes, fierce and cruel as his gaze pierced through hers.

"Clearly you _must_ be taught the proper way to treat your king. You must be taught _respect_." Struggling frantically against the chains she watched him fashion a knife from the thin air, its blade razor sharp and gleaming a bright silver against the moonlight. "And I know _just_ the way to teach you the lesson I intend so insistently to bestow upon you." Loki smiled evilly, his eyes glistening with malice as he slowly slid the tip of the blade of the knife into the soft, sensitive skin of her already injured shoulder, his fingers seeming to twitch with anticipation against the hilt of the knife as torturous, slow pain crept into the nerves of her torso, increasing ever so gradually that it made every ounce of dolor that much more concrete, that much more substantial. Then without warning the blade was driven deep into her torso until all that remained visible was the hilt. A piercing scream of agony escaped her lips and she writhed in pain against the binds, her body shaking violently as Loki began to twist it, curling the blade into her muscles until she felt its metal scrape the very marrow of her shoulder bone.

_"Now, let us begin..."_


	2. Chapter 2

Another of Emily's blaring screams shot like a bullet through the empty room, feeding off of the expectant echoes of the murky night as the Trickster irately ran his blade along the protruding length of her ribs, enraged by her seemingly perpetual pertinacity. Copious wounds, gashes and craters were scattered over the length of her body, and blood pooled around her feet, staining her skin with the cuts etched so deeply into it. He gave a mocking, inexorable laugh, sensing how weak she was as her body grew languid, with only the biting restraint of the chains to prevent her from collapsing at his feet. The immense loss of blood was making her weak, barely able to endure much more; it would only be a matter of time before Death eventually closed in on her. Strenuous, stinging breaths tore through her chest as she scrambled to fight both the urge to comply to Loki and the pain, the option to accept defeat seeming more and more tempting by the minute. Her audacity and ego were like volatile flames, ablaze with defiance and valor. The pain could never smother that fire, no matter how great; she would die before she gave in; suddenly realization dawned on Loki's features.

"Perhaps you need another incentive, darling..."

He turned his back to her suddenly, an alternative plan blooming in his mind. Then, before the agent had time to protest, he turned back around and harshly gripped her jaw, wrenching it upwards, forcing her to meet his demonic gaze as it bore into the depths of her very soul. "I will drag your parents here and force you to watch as I kill them slowly, torture them beyond mortal capabilities, tear every fragment of burning skin from their bones until their screams die down and their hearts give out from the agony I bestow upon them." He spat, his words feral and jagged, his piercing emerald eyes burning with rage. Fear emerged from the depths of her defiance, surging fluently through her veins as his words lay the last crack in the erratic levee of her mind, finally breaking her down.

He must have seen her worst memories, must have sifted through thought by harrowing thought to uncover her greatest fear in order to get her to crack. And for a god like him, it had been all too easy once he had found it.

Ever since Loki had sought to rule over the world in attempted genocide, he had implanted agony-inducing nightmares into her parents' minds, as a sort of retribution for his failure. Every night since then they had been racked by horrifying nightmares, thrashing in their tormented sleep. It had definitely taken its heavy toll on them, as well as Emily; it tore her apart to see her parents suffering like this, and not being able to do a thing about it induced the gradual deterioration of her strength. Every night she forced herself to watch over them, to keep them safe while they writhed in terror in their sleep, wishing more than anything she could suffer in their place, killing anyone and anything that tried to break in during the night.

This process stretched for years on end.

In fact, one night it had reached the very point where she could not possibly take it anymore and, with the last threads of hope shattering before her eyes, and hands trembling violently, she slashed one of her blades across her wrist, watching the blood steadily glide down her arm in a crimson ribbon. That was how the assassin had known she was still alive, and not living out one of the worst nightmares to have ever plagued her fragile mind. Ingenuously, her parents had disregarded the scars strewn across Emily's skin, afraid to ask her how she had gotten them because they knew it was better to be left curious in the dark than to be injected with the arcane venom of the truth.

Some things were better left unsaid.

Falling apart before the god, Emily's eyes widened in sheer horror in response to his words. Shudders rippled through her body in waves in a futile attempt to rid itself of the pain taking root in the very core of her bones, so deep-seeded it was inevitable to get it to diminish at this point. To think this was the only defense this weak little mortal possessed...it was enough to make Loki laugh. He could have wallowed in the sea of fear streaming down her face in the form of tears, coalescing with the darkened blood staining her jaw as he released it from his tenacious grip, taking a step back, watching her intently.

"_No, no...leave them alone! I'll do anything_, _**PLEASE!**_" Violent sobs slashed through her as he implanted those images in her mind, taking advantage of her crumbling mental state.

As Loki opened his mouth to ask her if she learned her lesson, demand her to give him the respect he deserved, something barely audible crossed his keen ears. It was a sound foreign to him and he twisted around to face a dark figure, outlined in blackness. His eyes narrowed to thin, dubious peridot slits. His godlike magic assessed her mind, telling him it was a dying blur and he ignored it, conjuring his scepter in his hand.

"You." He snarled as he clutched his weapon tighter, recognizing the figure at once.

In a flash of blinding light the figure sent hurtling towards the Trickster at lightning speed, he flew back into the wall opposite the girl, breaking through wall after wall until finally crashing into a heap of crumbled remains on the other side of the building. Quickly the figure broke through the chains binding Emily to the wall and she stirred ever so slightly, barely able to support her head on her shoulders, exposed like a newborn baby to this mysterious figure. As the broken agent was released she collapsed into the dark form's waiting arms, unable to support herself as her breathing grew unnaturally slow, like a hibernating animal's. Her heart beat was fading away.

_Was he too late?_

The blood loss had devitalized her to the point where she could feel Death reaching out to her now, claws outstretched, ready to envelop her in eternal shadow...

...

...

...

_and then there was darkness._


	3. Chapter 3

((Sorry this took so long, anyway, here's to another suspenseful chapter! I apologize; don't worry though, it gets a lot fluffier from here ^^ thank you so much to everyone that favorites/follows. Sending you virtual hugs and gifts ^_^

* * *

Emily slowly opened her eyes to blinding flash of white, unable to ignore the blazing hospital lights screaming incessantly up at her. It forced her out of the profound comatose-like state that had enveloped her entire being in a sort of lethargic fog. Mind heavily clouded from sleep, she began to turn her head to the side in order to groggily perceive her surroundings, only to realize that a hand was pressed gently to her forehead, prohibiting her from doing so, and that she was in some sort of hospital bed or something. Ugh. She loathed hospitals with a burning passion.

When the agent blinked the sleep-fog out of her eyes to glance curiously up at the figure, she watched him withdraw his hand from her skin, and the searing pain that had enveloped her suddenly vanished completely. This was the same dark shape that had saved her from Loki, this time ablaze with the light that surrounded the room. The flames of luminosity seemed to emanate from him alone and she met his eyes intently, his frame growing clearer to her by the second. His face was well-sculpted, though slightly rough around the edges, highlighted by the sharp outlines of his emotionless expression. The man was adorned in a long beige trenchcoat over a rather orthodox suit and plain blue tie; however, what stood out so prominently against all of this had to be his brilliant blue eyes, shining like two vibrant sapphires staring expressionlessly down at her. Rubbing her eyes dazedly, the shattered assassin somehow found she had enough strength to move her limbs again and she held her hands up to her face, examining them. No scars, no blood, nothing. The suffering that followed every effort to move her muscles was gone too. Eyebrows furrowed slightly, she felt underneath the covers around her shoulders and waist, and noticed the lack of lacerations there too.

How in the _hell?_

Gaze shifting back to the man, she let her prismatic eyes dawn on his stormy ones.

"You saved me."

Her voice came out weak, almost tremulous, and barely audible from the fear that still remained, yet she found herself unable to break her gaze from his. She felt something between them, something augmenting in the intensity of their collided stares. Something she couldn't quite label.

"Yes." He replied, his voice rugged and worn, probably with time.

"Who are you?"

"I am Castiel, and I am an Angel of the Lord." He replied impassively, and with a sound similar to the faint fluttering of a swan's immaculate wings, he vanished from her sight, leaving her in an endless sea of questions and confusion. What had just happened?

* * *

Castiel studied the human closely, watching her breathe almost stertorously from the excruciating pain in which she must have been. Her injuries were severe, far worse than he had expected, and the amount of blood she had lost would have been astounding to anything other than an angel. The dark-haired lady in the white coat had told him he was not allowed in the girl's hospital room after he had just rescued her, which he thought rather strange. He was the one who rescued her, shouldn't he be the one to take care of her?

The angel couldn't quite explain why he saved the life of the woman whose cries he'd heard and followed like a trail of sound, where he came across one of the many demigods towering over the human who's voice he'd heard beforehand. Maybe it was because of the rage that had built itself up inside of him at the nerve of the god, or maybe he almost felt...something strangely close to sympathy towards the poor woman.

Almost.

It didn't matter now anyway. He'd done something without orders or consent, and he had to vanish immediately before the other angels caught up with him. He had been running from the tight reins of heaven ever since he decided that he was on Team Free Will with Sam and Dean Winchester, and that the others could not boss him around 24/7 anymore.

His conscience had been pretty scrambled since then.

Reaching out to her, the angel closed his eyes and gathered his healing powers in through his hand, pressing it to her forehead as carefully as he could manage. Humans were typically fragile in that regard, especially this one in particular. He didn't want to risk adding to her pain.

The instant his fingers reached her face, every single one of her injuries had dissipated into thin air, leaving only the darkened bloodstains adorning her clothes, the only evidence that she had ever been harmed at all in the first place. After examining her closely, he noticed that she had in fact woken from her comatose-like state and was staring up at him curiously, acquiescence spreading over her features at the clarity the light gave his face. She probably remembers everything now, he figured.

But before he could allow her to get a more sufficient look at him, he disappeared with not so much as another word, tired of being chased by them, wondering with exasperation if they would ever grow tired of chasing him.

* * *

Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff were not mercurial people.

Yet there they sat, nervously side-by-side on the bench outside of Em's hospital room, their fingers tightly laced together, solemn gazes fixed morosely on the tile floor. The doctors told them that she was far too battered and had lost far too much blood for them to risk scanning the cerebrum for any type of neurological responses to electrical simulation or scanning, which meant that the most they could do was give her a blood transfusion and hope that she had just lapsed into a temporary comatose state due to her severe injuries. However, they could tell by the contusing and the swelling that she had indeed fractured a rib, in addition to her other injuries. The sight of their daughter, scattered with abhorrent gashes and bruises coalescing with the additional news that they could do nothing to save her until she had fully recovered from the blood loss, if at all, had taken such a heavy toll on them that the pain behind the silence seemed to hover over them like a thick cloud. Clint was typically the more sentimental one, being the immensely protective father and all, but this time it was plain to see that Em's run-in with Loki had affected Natasha most conspicuously of all. Anyone else who might have dared a glance in the Black Widow's direction at that moment would have thought she was just lost in some sort of carefree reverie, but Barton knew her well enough to see the dolor behind those beautiful green eyes of hers.

They had always had a bit of a dysfunctional relationship, the three of them, especially Em and Nat's. Virtually every time Clint saw them together in the same room they would be going at it lately, yelling at each other in something Clint couldn't understand but sounded like Russian. But judging by the terrible combinations of anger and hurt he would witness across their impassive faces he was so used to rendering them unreadable, he could see the poison begin to set in between them forming cracks in their defenses.

And it broke his heart.

They weren't always like this, only if Emily chose to do something that didn't conform to her or Fury's rules would they go at each other's throats again.

She and her daughter were practically one in the same; this was also part of the problem. They used to be so close; when Em was just a little girl, she used to spend hours on end just spending time with Tasha, simply letting the world pass by them as they recounted their old stories and memories like long lost sisters. He had watched that seemingly unbreakable bond begin to falter as the girl gradually grew more independent in her ways, wanting to constantly go off on her own, reckless in her decisions and careless with the skills she had inherited from them. Eventually she grew up, and they had to accept that she was at that age where she just wanted to show the world that she could handle it without the help of her parents. In fact, the girl probably thought them to be an impediment to her, that they stood in her way, when in reality they were the only thing standing between her and the monsters that lurked within the shadows. And judging by the poor girl's horrifying condition, it appeared as if they had found her.

Natasha gripped Clint's hand a little tighter and fought back tears, inhaling sharply as she rested her head on his broad shoulder for comfort. At any moment their daughter could be dying, taking in her last tremulous breath and they couldn't see her, couldn't do a damn thing about it. It made her furious, but then she remembered her nearly moribund daughter, strength withering away, and her heart softened up the rest of her again.

"This is my fault..." She whispered faintly, closing her eyes as Clint pulled her closer to him.

"Tasha, there was nothing you could do. There's nothing you can do when she storms off on her own like that. Everything'll be alright." He replied softly, wrapping his arms around her reassuringly and kissing the top of her head as she leaned it against his chest.

"Um, excuse me, um...sir, ma'am..." A small, squeaky voice called out a little while later, coming from a short nurse with long blonde hair. They both glanced up simultaneously in response. "We have checked on the patient, and the injuries she sustained were just...gone! Must be some sort of miracle!"

"What?!" They exclaimed in unison, disbelief spreading over both of their features.

"Come, take a look!" The nurse replied exuberantly, opening the door for them.

What they saw made Clint's jaw drop and Natasha's eyes widen in shock.


	4. Chapter 4

Alright, Chapter 4 woo! This one's a lot less violence and more fluff/feels, just to warn you ^_^ here's the playlist I was listening to while I was writing this:

Goodnight Goodnight-Maroon 5

If You Only Knew-Shinedown

The Fighter-Gym Class Heroes ft. Ryan Tedder

Your Arms Feel Like Home-3 Doors Down

This is Home-Switchfoot

You'll Be in My Heart-Phil Collins

The Messenger-Linkin Park

Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

* * *

The sight of an unconscious Nat greeted them as they burst into the room, and they quieted their steps as they caught sight of their sleeping daughter with astonishment. _Where were the bruises? The scars and gashes? The blood crawling down the corner of her mouth?_ That all seemed to have vanished within the hour, instead replaced by an almost peaceful look, a blanket of serenity spreading delicately over her features-almost childlike. Her breathing had quickened a bit but only to the point of normalcy, and the signs of physical pain buried deep into her expression had somehow dug itself out of its dark crater.

The nurse approached them. "Excuse me, but what were your names again...?"

"Natalie and Eric Rushman." Tasha lied, handing the woman her fake i.d. as she gestured with her head for Clint to do the same. The woman nodded as if to say their credentials checked out. "I'll just…leave you three alone for some time. She'll regain consciousness in a bit; call me when she does and I'll call the doctor in for diagnosis." The nurse shifted uncomfortably on her hideous white shoes with a sheepish smile over her features, clearly getting the brunt of the awkwardness hanging in the air between them like a thick yet transparent cloud as she slipped out of the room.

Clint and Natasha's eyes met.

"Nat…"

"Clint…"

They began at the same time, sharing a smile as it happened.

"You first," Natasha offered.

"Alright. Can I…talk to Em alone when she wakes up? I just want to straighten things out with her."

Tasha nodded solemnly, both of their smiles fading away at once. She knew how broken her relationship with Nat was; her daughter probably couldn't even bear to look at her anymore. Her eyes fell as she hesitantly stepped out of the room and into the hallway, concealing her pain. This was for the best, and she knew that deep down. Maybe if Clint could soften Em up a bit, then maybe this wouldn't leave such a bitter taste in all of their mouths. As the archer slowly crept into the room, a concerned Natasha sat down on the bench outside her daughter's room alone this time, shooting a caring glance in the girl's direction, wishing the last moments she'd had spent with her daughter would have been better for Emily's sake.

* * *

The sound of footsteps, a barely audible echo reverberating off the bleak walls of the hospital room was what awoke the weakened agent from her light slumber, her subconscious mind alerting her of the presence of another in her room. The footsteps were resounding yet somewhat soft, as if the person didn't want to wake her. But they were loud enough to tell her that this wasn't Natasha. As her eyes slowly fluttered open, she took a deep breath in and turned her head to meet her father's deep, stormy blue eyes with her own vibrant green ones. "Dad." A faint smile threaded itself through the pain in her expression and the hollow, flat echo in her voice, brightening her features with grateful threads of gold. The unspoken words hung over both of their tongues until Emily finally swallowed the nightmares tying knots in her throat, her pain-blurred gaze fixed on Clint's features crinkled like parchment with concern. It was true; stress really did age you. He looked like a tired old man for the very first time, and a wave of guilt shot through her veins because she knew it was all because of her. She was supposed to be the glue that kept her broken family together, but all she had done was tear it apart.

"I'm so sorry, I should have listened…maybe if I had just _listened_ to you instead of trying to handle everything on my own none of this would've…" Her voice was choked with tears and she buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking in profound anguish.

For a moment Clint was too overwhelmed with shock to react; he had never in his entire life seen her so crushed before. This was the very same girl who had learned to fight off an entire gang of New York drug dealers at the age of fourteen, walking away without so much as a single scratch on her, the very same girl who endured an entire lifetime of nightmares and suffering just to protect her parents from the darkness that was so persistently sought out to get them, who had somehow stopped herself in the process of attempting suicide with the faded lines etched into her wrists and forearms, her battle scars. He had watched her begin to deteriorate as the months went on, but never had he ever thought that it would lead to something devastating as this.

Now he saw only the remains of the brave little soldier he'd taught how to fight, and it tore his heart to shreds.

"Hey," he whispered softly, gently taking her hands away from her tearstained face as she wept brokenly, cupping his hands tenderly around her jaw with a voice as smooth and calm as the infinite sea of blue in his eyes that stared lovingly back at her, "listen. Emily, this is not_ by any means_ your fault." He sat down at her bedside and fondly wiped away her tears with his thumb, "you are the strongest, bravest girl I've ever met. And no one can ever take that away from you, not even Loki. I know I was rough on you in the past, but I was just afraid I wasn't protecting you well enough because he kept going after you. Do you know why that is?" He asked her softly, smoothing out her ruffled red hair before pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, "because you were the only one who had the courage to stand up to him. The guts it takes to stand your ground in spite of everything that was being done to you…that takes the heart of a hero, Em. I couldn't be more proud of you."

Clint's face brightened with the presence of a sunny, genuine smile despite the threads of tired melancholy stitched into it, enveloping his features in a kind light that became infectious, spreading over her expression too as he gave her hand a soft squeeze before stroking the back of her hand absently.

"Of course, it doesn't hurt to run once in a while. Especially if the one you're running from is a genocidal maniac-slash-demigod-slash-frost-giant." He chuckled, shaking his head. She managed a smile, slowly propping her head up on her elbow as if one wrong jerk could snap her neck, afraid the pain would suddenly flood back into her. A stray strand of hair fell over her face and he tucked it behind her ear thoughtfully, "I still can't believe you survived that. Whoever saved you must have been some sort of…_guardian angel_ or something."

Nat did not believe in angels. And she certainly did not believe in the kind that was supposed to keep you from harm. If that really had been a "guardian angel" that saved her, why had he waited until Emily was about ready to welcome Death with acquiescent yet accepting arms? The young agent could only wonder in curious silence what else was out there as the possibilities drifted through her mind like dreamy arms of smoke wrapping her in questions, waving away her doubts.

He shifted slightly with a light intake of breath. "You know, if I had been in your shoes...I don't think I could've even been_ half_ as strong as you were." He told her, tracing his thumb over the back of her palm where the runes had once melted over her skin in deep, thin ribbons of scarlet. The scarred remains of courage and still lingered in her bright eyes, a small shard of faith in the two people that kept her alive, a chance that there were other broken pieces out there, still salvageable, and she could somehow gather them and put them back together again before Loki returned. They both shared a thin yet meaningful smile. He smiled because he understood.

She smiled because he believed.

After a handful of moments Clint rose from where he sat beside his daughter as she drifted off again into another exhausted sleep, thin threads of fire scattered all around her face, disheveled from being bedridden for so long. The archer's face brightened with relief as peace shrouded his daughter in a moment not quite perfect, but unforgettable nonetheless. Pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, he smiled in pleasant thought before slipping out of the room surreptitiously, careful not to wake her.

The minute Clint stepped out of the room, Natasha jumped to her feet.

"Is she alright?" The assassin took his hands anxiously, her voice floating between them in a whisper nearly silent to the busy world around them. "To be honest Tasha, no. But she will be. Emily will be alright, we just need to give her time." Nat dared a glance at her daughter through the window of her daughter's hospital room, the sight of her daughter's frail frame rising and falling like the faintest whisper of the tide sweeping across the sand awakened something within the assassin, a warm yet painful flame of pity burning a hole through the ice around her heart that grown bitter and frigid in the Red Room.

"I've never seen her like this." She shook her head in disbelief, her gaze fixed on the girl as she lost herself in thought. "She usually just dusts herself off and gets back up like it's nothing. This time is different."

The poor girl had been through more than enough for a lifetime. That was it. Enough was enough. Natasha would fucking tear Loki apart and keep him alive long enough to let every particle of agony settle in his blood before making sure he died a slow, excruciating death at the merciless hands of the Black Widow. Clint placed his hand over hers gently, stepping in front of her so he could look her straight in the eyes. Realizing her hands were clenched into fists so tight that she could feel her nails breaking skin and blood starting to run down the base of her knuckles, she opened her palm and entwined her fingers with his, laying her head in the curve where his neck and shoulder met. Closing her eyes, she let him hold her close in his outstretched arms before pressing a soft kiss to his lips as his hands gently cupped her jaw.

Together they sat down, sharing a knowing smile before Nat stood to go check on their daughter. "I'm going to try to talk to her. Wish me luck." She sighed, giving his hand a worried squeeze before slipping between the half-opened door and its frame. He opened his mouth, not quite sure what to say, then shut it again. No words of encouragement would really mean much to a woman whose entire life was practically a lie.

* * *

Em didn't hear a thing as her mother entered the room, as silent as the world outside of the chattering machines and TV screens of her hospital room. She slept with an effortless sort of depth, the kind of sleep that was too shallow for dreams to fill in but too deep to remember.

Nat wasn't quite sure how to wake her daughter without startling her, so she sat down in the chair beside the bed and began humming softly to herself. It was a song that always reminded her of Clint.

_"Tasha! Tasha turn it up, I love this song!"_

_He shouted, jumping onto the hood of the stolen car she had just recently hotwired, the radio playing softly the minute she got the engine running. With a small laugh and a dramatic roll of her eyes she turned the music up to full blast, laughing harder as he began to yell out the lyrics in a pitifully off-key, hilarious version of karaoke._

_"When the moon is low_

_We can dance in slow motion_

_And all your tears will subside_

_All your tears will dry"_

_As the archer leaned down, wrapping his arms around her waist to hoist her up onto the hood as well she hit him playfully with the back of her hand, daring to dance on top of the car with him. _

_"And long after I've gone_  
_You'll still be humming along_  
_And I will keep you in my mind_  
_The way you make love so fine_

_We may only have tonight_  
_But till the morning sun, you're mine_  
_All mine_  
_Play the music low_  
_And sway to the rhythm of love_  
_Play the music low_  
_And sway to the rhythm of love_  
_Yeah, sway to the rhythm of love"_

_Busted moves turned to holding hands and slow dances, which faded into affectionate kisses and a tangled mass of bodies as they climbed into the backseat of the car. Natasha lost herself then and there in the warmth of his body, the caring curve of his lips, the smile that lit up his eyes and filled her own with the hope that she could love and be loved after all. She had thought herself to be incapable of such silly things; she was an assassin, and so was he. Assassins weren't supposed to fall in love, especially not someone like Natasha. But it was the kind of thing she knew would be poisonous to her in the end because of how tangled up she knew she'd get, but she was okay with that. Clint was more than worth it._

Pretty soon a stupid grin formed on the surface of the assassin's lips at the thought. It was one of the memories that stained her mind with a sweetness she never wanted to wash out, the moment where professional, world-class assassins were just young adults crazy in something they would have hoped to call love. It was a shame this love story had to hit a black bump in the road.

* * *

Pretty soon Natasha's voice drifted lightly through the room and the words formed on her lips, a gentle reminder of the best memory of her life she could possibly gather. Most of her memories had been hidden behind an immense wall put up during the Black Widow Program, something she'd been forced into as a child. They had brainwashed her completely in an attempt to make her another one of their Russian robot spies; SHIELD, however, had been able to recover some of her memory and erase the fake ones.

Hearing her mother's voice ring out, a gentle murmur against the steady drawl of the heart monitor, she opened her eyes. The sight of Tasha singing quietly and smiling like the carefree child she sometimes became when Clint was around soon became contagious; her mother's grin caught hold of Em's features as well, soon becoming something they both shared. Noticing this, Natasha finally turned to meet her daughter's glowing gaze. The unspoken apologies hung in the air between them and their smiles fell away in bitter thought. Emily shifted to her other side so her back was facing Natasha, suddenly not wanting to talk to her. The truth was, she wanted to make amends, wanted things to be better, but she was afraid the moment she opened her mouth things would just get even worse than they already were.

The delicate awkwardness in the atmosphere painted a blur of red over Em's features and she suddenly felt glad she was facing away from her mother.

Natasha sighed. She knew this would happen. "Look, Em...you know I'm bad as hell at this whole mother thing," Nat laughed dryly, not a trace of humor to be found in her tone. "And I know I was a little...harsh on you in the past, but that was only to protect you. I was just trying to keep you safe, but in doing so I was only making it worse. I know that the more I restrict you the more freedom you want, and the more you're willing to rebel for it. I was the same way when I was younger. I didn't want to be another one of the KGB's robots; I wanted to be different. The only thing that kept me from running away was blackmail. Blackmail and corporal punishments. _Very_ harsh ones in fact," Natasha's eyes hit the ground with a dismissing wave of her hand. "But this isn't about my past. It's about how I failed to protect you."

Emily listened intently the entire time, frowning slightly. Suddenly she felt a little guilty at the way she was treating Nat and she turned to face the other, deciding it would be better if she just...gave her a chance. She saw Tasha's face redden with anger.

"And how the next time Loki _dares_ show his face around here I'll smash his face in so hard it-"

"Mom."

"Sorry," She laughed a little less flatly this time, relaxing her muscles as she realized that they were stiff as metal coils tensed to spring. "Getting carried away again?"

"Yup."

"Anyway, I shouldn't be so tough on you. The Moriarty thing wasn't your fault, and I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. It didn't make things better at all; in fact, it just made things _worse_. That was completely my fault, Em, and you shouldn't be subjected to s-"

"Nat, I told you. It was my fault. You were just...trying to do your job."

"I-yeah," She shifted slightly, not sure what else she was supposed to say. "This whole mom-thing is harder than anything I've ever done, to be honest. I'm lousy as hell at it, and I know that."

"I do too," Emily teased, giving a sympathetic yet weak smile. Natasha could kill a dozen world-class, exceptionally trained men without batting a single lash; raising a child turned out to be something she was never trained for. It was so much harder than it looked. "I'm kidding. You're not _that_ bad. I mean, I know you mean well, you just have to listen to me once in a while. Because the more you jump on my back about things, the more it makes me want to run off on my own. I don't want to be that stupid, but it's just...instinctual, I guess. Like I can't help being an idiot sometimes," She stretched out her sore muscles on the bed. "That's usually when I nearly get myself killed."

"Well, maybe this is good for you then. This tells us we need to talk better, which we're already starting to do right now." Nat admitted, shrugging her shoulders lightly.

Em nodded in mutual agreement.

"What can I do to make this easier on you without completely letting you off the leash, so to speak?" Natasha asked, resting her jaw on one fist.

"Hmm...chill the hell out maybe?"

Natasha shot her a warning glare.

"Kidding," She laughed, holding her hands up in surrender. "Well...I think we both have to listen. You didn't want to listen to me when I did something I shouldn't have, and I didn't want to listen to you because I felt like I was being repressed. So...it'd be easier if we both just open up a bit."

Nat hummed in a sort of concise agreement.

They talked for a while, about things that had always been buzzing in both their minds like a bothersome fly, things they needed to get off their chest. They both felt like an immense weight was lifted away.

* * *

Clint watched them from outside, wondering with curious eyes what they were talking about. He could almost make out the words on their lips as they shared a faint smile. It was weak, sure; he could see that from the window. But it was substantial nonetheless. They were patching up what had been frayed, and that was the important part.

* * *

And from this moment on, they began to mend their heavily damaged relationship in the hopes that everything would turn out fine again, for Emily's sake.


	5. Chapter 5

(('Ello everyone! How do you think my story's turning out so far? Please let me know! New EBR playlist for you to enjoy:

Talk You Down-The Script

Heaven Forbid-The Fray

Iris-Goo Goo Dolls

Losing My Mind-Maroon 5

For The First Time-The Script

Stop and Stare-OneRepublic

Oh and also, I'm introducing another OC into my story, Jado Grey. He's also a SHIELD agent, but of lower rank than Em, so he sometimes doubles as an orderly or assistant for the doctors/etc. in SHIELD's infirmary. He's also an enormous tech geek and is phenomenal with computers as well as hacking. He gets much less action and is pretty quiet/reserved as far as personalities go (OC is Matthew Gray Gubler).

Thanks for reading! Hope you like!

* * *

Emily hummed softly to herself as faint fingers of daylight gently touched over her through SHIELD's infirmary window, the early morning sunrise already inducing a cheery disposition within the healing agent. Ever since she had been let out of the hospital due to her injuries had somehow (magically?) healing in the blink of an eye, the girl had been taken back into SHIELD as a "mentally ill agent", at least for the time being, and Fury and her parents agreed to allow her some time to herself in a different section of their infirmary to gather her strength back up again (with the occasional assessment here and there to make sure she was improving). Not knowing many other methods of curing her "mental illness", Fury figured he could at least give her some time off while still watching over her.

It was the safest way to get her back on her feet again.

Besides, Emily was one of his best agents. The Avengers were busy preparing for the next big terrorist attack should there be a need for immediate action, and this meant he couldn't always rely extensively on his most talented field agent to do the dirty jobs most of his other agents simply couldn't handle by themselves like she could. But S.H.I.E.L.D _was_ hurting-so to speak-because of her absence.

Unaware of this, the broken assassin tapped her foot softly against the cool tile floor to the steady rhythm of the upbeat yet indistinguishable little song she was humming, sketching out a rather detailed blooming lotus. Her brain had been a bit scrambled since the "accident" with Loki, but she still retained all of her knowledge on the things that mattered; Fury made sure of that. But a part of her was still off in Dreamland, a place where every outline was soft and faded, utterly dreamlike; and murder and bloodshed and fear were just whispers and memories barely existent, hardly perceptible.

Something she refused to be reminded of. Something that drove her just a tiny bit mad.

But that was completely understandable, even for Fury; she should have died from the damage done to her body. Nobody could have possibly survived those injuries Loki inflicted on her, let alone come out of it completely sane. And not only that, but this was not the first time she had been picked apart. When she had attempted to be a double agent, pretending to work for Jim, was the first time she'd been injured badly enough to kill her instantly; somehow she made it out of that one alive too. Something clearly wanted her to keep on breathing. Whether it was Fate, God, or some other higher being...that was far beyond him, and investigating that was way above his paygrade as far as he was concerned.

But one thing he was sure of; he _had_ to make sure she could survive.

* * *

As far as reveries went, Dreamland was whatever she wanted it to be; right now the girl was an artist, painting works for the Queen of England to admire and place in her art gallery, waving proudly at the vast crowd of admirers as she stepped onstage to receive her award and present her next masterpiece.

Suddenly a voice broke through the blurry cheers of the imaginary crowd with a quiet, rather squeaky clearing of the throat the girl had gotten quite used to. "Hey. Hey, um...Em? Y-you're sleepwalking again. Here, l-let me, erm, help you back to bed so we can assess your anxiety levels." In Dreamland, the young man taking her by the arm wasn't one of Fury's many assistants; he was guiding her offstage before she finished her speech. "Mmm, no…b-but I wasn't finished…my speech...the queen..." Uttering a soft noise in protest, Emily shook her head, profoundly confused, still a bit tangled up in her reverie.

Suddenly the lines began to grow sharper, her eyesight finally zeroing in on reality again. She wasn't on any sort of stage at all; she was being gently guided back to her mattress, her drawing notebook clutched tightly and protectively to her chest like a mother holding her baby, her dominant hand (the right one) smudged with black and red pen ink. "I-...was I really…again?" She asked curiously, voice quiet and fluffy like a small rabbit's mewlings as he helped her fold her long legs underneath the blanket. "Yep. Erm, sleep-drawing too, it l-looks like. You should...r-really, erm, become a sleep-artist." He smiled cordially down at her, scanning over her mental state. Still a little wacky, but better than he'd first seen her.

_Much better._

He took her blood pressure. "118/79. That's an immense improvement to when you were first checked in here."

Smiling, the girl touched his hand gently, her fingers slender and long, nearly frail from the amount of time she'd spent bedridden. "Still geeky and cute as ever, I see."

She stifled a chuckle as his cheeks flushed a vibrant red. "Erm, I-thank you..." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, biting his lip, unsure of how to react.

Ignoring this, "No. Thank _you_ for helping me. _Really_. You don't have to do this for me. And...would you mind seeing if my parents could possibly come visit me sometime? I miss them." It had been two weeks since she'd last seen them, but it felt like years. They had both been busy with missions and things, just like always. It was like how that one saying went-you never know what you have until it's gone, she believed it was.

"Of course, Em, anything."

And it wasn't until she planted a quick peck on his cheek and waved a grateful goodbye, smiling that weak, hollow little smile she'd acquired throughout the medication-blurred month, that she realized her family was practically only thing that kept her heart beating.

She needed them now more than ever before.

* * *

Agent Jado Grey studied the empty hallways, looking for the top secret conference room behind the training facilities where he knew the Avengers met and discussed...well, whatever superheroes and badass directors in black eyepatches discuss. His lanky, thin frame cast thin shadows over the walls as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Jado Grey was a tall young man, just 20 years old, with a very young, smooth face and a well-defined, prominent jaw that was accentuated by his cheekbones. His hair was a silky shade of mahogany, with bangs that cascaded down half the side of his face. His eyes matched his hair perfectly, save for the darker rings around the outsides. The agent was a sort of dorky kind of handsome, accentuated by his thick black glasses and tendency to wear sweater vests on a daily basis.

To be honest, he didn't normally like to do favors for people unless it was his boss or Agent Coulson (because most agents secretly feared Phil whether they wanted to admit it or not). With Jado it was always fix my laptop this, hack that, and he was sick of it. He was the geek next door that everybody ignored until someone needed a computer nerd; then suddenly, _he_ was the popular kid. But personally, Jado was rooting for the poor thing. Emily Barton-Romanoff was the toughest woman he'd ever known (besides the Black Widow, of course); and to be honest, he really liked her. She was definitely a bit on the audacious side, maybe _too_ audacious to guarantee her safety, but hilarious as hell. The girl was like a ball of fire in a dull room of nothing but grey nothingness. She was a danger to be around, sure, easily provoked given the right circumstances, but she made being a field agent that much more enjoyable. Whenever they were assigned a mission together, she could always make the best of a terrible situation, in spite of his rather shy and silent disposition.

Knowing she would one day get herself into serious situation and fatal set of circumstances, Jado had been the one that had prayed to Castiel every night to protect Emily from harm, to watch over her. He had had a hunch; she would need all the help she could get.

But seeing her like this? It was depressing for him. That fire was gone from her eyes, leaving a dull gleam behind the green. He could tell that void, that lackluster look was because of the trauma, the remains of paralyzing fear and agony, and this was her way of trying to forget.

He missed the old Emily so much. Happy old memories flooded his mind.

_"Come on, keep up. You're like a freaking turtle or something. And **not** the badass ninja kind." Emily teased, whispering to him between bounds, dashing easily from shadow to shadow noiselessly through the night like a child leaping over stepping stones in a pond, red hair soaring behind her in the wind. Jado, panting laboriously, scrambled to keep up with her, jogging halfheartedly with the occasional sharp halt, ensuring he wouldn't get caught in the light._

_They had been following a rather influential mobster as part of their espionage mission-a very dangerous one at that-and Jado had somehow convinced Fury to let him tag along and help with tech stuff and surveillance. After hiding out in a relatively quotidian-looking economy car much like the others parked all around the same street, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s security cameras strewn all about, they had found one of the Mafia capos, of all people, taking a brief walk down the street. From far away, Emily could already tell he had a nice, sharp little scalpel in his pocket; he seemed to be the type who preferred to "play with his food before he ate it", so to speak. Or, in other words, he liked to torture his victims before finally killing them. Just the kind of scumbag I'd like to take out, she had thought with distaste, shaking her head in disgust._

_"Can't you just...slow down **please**?" He gasped, leaning over, straightening his arms and resting them on his thighs for support while he caught his breath. With a concise roll of her eyes she turned around and crept along the wall to make her way back to where Jado was, a mere few feet away. "We're gonna lose him if you don't hurry the eff up. Want me to carry you, Jadie dear?"_

_After that, he practically bolted ahead of her._

_Jado's footsteps made the occasional resounding squeak due to the combat boots he wore, refusing to wear a pair Emily's silent, footprint-less flats because he claimed that they were girly._

_"I want to look awesome, not gay."_

_She had raised her eyebrows at that, but had said nothing. What harm could the shoes possibly do?_

_Because of this, his footsteps grew rather loud whenever he broke into a run, and the capo began to suspect they were there. A few times he actually whipped himself fully around with narrowed eyes, hand creeping along the lining of his pocket where the scalpel lay. Grabbing Jado whilst the two of them dove discreetly behind the nearest building, Emily threw both their backs against the brick wall, trying to keep her hard breathing under control. For a moment she shut her eyes tightly, not wanting to think about what would happen if he caught them. After a while the mobster's footsteps persisted again and she could breathe again, pulling Jado up by the shirt collar. "Come on Princess, let's get a move on."_

_"Hey." He frowned slightly; she could hear it in his voice despite the fact that her trained eyes were fixed on their target. "Oh, man up."_

_"YOU man up."_

_"This is getting tedious..." She whispered through gritted teeth, huffing quietly in annoyance. If she could have just shot the capo right then and there she would have in a heartbeat, but Fury wouldn't have allowed that. Em certainly wasn't a sniper; that wasn't what she had been assigned to do. All they had to do was find out where he and his Mafia buddies met, possibly catch a few names if they could and they could head back, leave the hard work for more highly ranked agents: mission accomplished for now. But it wasn't that easy; they both had known it from the start. Spying took patience, agility, stamina, strategy, and a lethal you-won't-know-what-hit-you attitude. Jado clearly didn't have any of these things, but without him, Emily could never have hacked into the capo's computer nor could she have ever found his files telling about their secret meeting that was to take place at midnight. It had been in Italian, but luckily he had (of course) been brilliant enough to translate it for them (thank God for the internet)._

_Pretty soon they reached the man's final destination, taking pictures of the location themselves to give to Coulson._

**_[TEXT] 225 South Park Avenue. Pics attached._**

_Emily texted Phil while they sat safely in their small car, with Jado staring blankly yet warily out the window, still appearing to be watching the building warily as if it would burst into flame any minute. "Message sent. I believe that's all the intelligence we need. Don't you?" She glanced at him questioningly from the passenger side for approval, meeting his eyes through those geeky glasses of his. He adjusted them uncomfortably. "I-um...s-suppose so..."_

_Chuckling lightly, Em leaned in slowly, pressing her lips softly to his. "You're so awkward. It's adorable."_

_At first he flinched slightly, eyes widening in surprise, before kissing her back gently, almost afraid to wrap his arms around her waist, afraid he would mess this up. The young woman clasped her hands around his neck and smiled against his lips. After a few seconds she broke the kiss and met his deep brown eyes, giving a small laugh at the way his glasses became crooked from the kiss. Adjusting them so they lined up with his eyes, she let go of him and reached for her seatbelt, buckling in. _

_"Step on it, Hotch."_

And he did exactly that.

* * *

Grinning like an idiot at the memory, he ran into the glass door of the conference room, as he wasn't looking where he was going; he had to throw his hands out and flail them around for balance in order to keep himself from faceplanting into the floor. All the Avengers turned to look at him due to the abrupt yet booming noise; Tony was stifling a laugh behind one hand. Clint and Natasha exchanged a questioning look after a synchronized glance in his direction. Bruce and Steve looked solemn and returned to their business. Thor was busy gorging himself with poptarts (something he'd grown very used to seeing; Thor would only sit through those meetings if he had at least two boxes of poptarts with him). Fury gave a dramatic roll of his eyes. Standing hesitantly, the Director got to his feet and opened the door, an annoyed expression darkening his features.

"There something we can help you with, Agent Grey?"

"I, erm...yeah...well...Em-, I mean, erm, Agent Barton-Romanoff...requested to-to see her parents in the infirmary, s-sir..."

Natasha's eyebrows shot up.

Fury crossed his arms over his chest.

"And have you done her mental assessment yet?"

"Yes, sir. She's improving at an approximate 2.76892% rate per day. She's been imbibing fewer and fewer amounts of medication and the effects almost seldom cease to work. She's already been down there for 19 days, so at this rate she'll be back in about...I'd say just over 2 weeks, sir."

Fury gave a short nod of approval. "Good." He turned to face the Avengers. "Agent Barton? Agent Romanoff? I believe it's time you pay your daughter a visit."

Clint struggled to contain the relieved smile twitching at the corners of his lips. "Yes, sir."

The two of them strode down the hallway together, with Jado struggling to keep up behind them. "I can see where she gets her pace from." He called out, hoping they would slow down. They didn't.

"I can't believe she's already more than halfway through recovery." Clint laughed, shaking his head, ignoring the techie. Natasha joined him, also fighting back a smile, not caring whether or not Jado was watching as she grabbed him and kissed him fiercely, right there in the middle of the hallway. After he eventually caught up, Agent Grey stood there uncomfortably, waiting for them to go on, his hands folded in front of him. "I-I'll just, erm, meet you two...there..." He continued on until he reached the infirmary, making his way to where Emily lay. She was asleep. Her arms were folded gently over her chest and she was sleeping on her left side, legs stretched out across the length of the bed. Pulling a bright strand of scarlet away from her eyes, he heard footsteps start up again and noted that her parents were not that far behind.

"Stay strong, Em." He told her, even though he automatically assumed she couldn't hear him through the obscurity of sleep.

But she did.

Somewhere deep within her subconscious mind she stored his words for later, three little words that would lift away some of the despair that settled around her.

* * *

Clint grunted in pleased surprise in reaction to her kiss, staggering back a bit from the almost overwhelming passion and warmth taking over him. Winding his fingers through her hair, he closed his eyes and took the moment in, smiling against her lips. It took all of his strength not to take her back to their place.

"Tasha, please don't do this to me...not now...we're about to go see our daughter and I know what you're doing."

She shot him a pleading, sad look, with a glint of slyness and mischief behind it.

"You're giving me that look again."

"What look?" She feigned innocence.

"You know what look." He chuckled deeply, clasping their fingers together. "Come on. Let's go."

Once they reached the doorway they looked up, spotting Jado by their daughter's bedside, placing a bottle of analgesics and serotonin reuptake inhibitors on the table next to her. He glanced up. "H-hey. I was just putting her meds on the table, i-if you, erm, don't mind. I'll just...l-leave you to talk to her once she w-wakes...but, erm, let me know if you need anything..."

"Thank you." Clint nodded as Nat inspected the pill bottle dubiously in his peripheral vision, probably searching for poison or something. He had grown used to her overcautious nature.

The two of them sat down in the chairs beside the bed as Clint swiped the bottle out of her hands, ignoring the deadly warning glance he received in return.

"Come on, Nat. Nobody would even **attempt** poisoning her as long as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s involved."

Natasha's voice fell to a gritty whisper. "She nearly died. **Twice.** And those are just the ones we are aware of. You know she's been hiding things from us Clint. Who knows how many other enemies she's made, how many others are after her? She's go-"

"Tasha. Baby. Stop." He grabbed the Black Widow firmly by the shoulders, something most people would have been strangled instantly for doing. But he knew she would never hurt him. Never. "She's safe for now, okay? Fury's aware of the danger she's in and he's taken enough precautionary measures to keep her safe for as long as she stays here. To be honest, I'm a little worried too, but we can't keep thinking she's a dead woman walking and a painful death is inevitable. It doesn't do her any good, it doesn't do us any good...the only thing we can do here is keep an eye on her and trust that Director Fury has everything under control right now. Okay?"

The archer didn't think she would be reassured in the slightest by his words. But to his surprise, he felt the tension in her shoulders melt away. She sighed deeply. "Alright, I guess I'll try to relax a little. I just...want her to be okay, that's all. I failed to protect her, and I just want her to be protected this time."

He smoothed out her hair and smiled comfortingly, wrapping her up in his arms. "She is, Tasha, trust me. The angels are watching over her."

* * *

About an hour later, hushed whispers brought the young agent back to reality and she turned her back to the wall, recognizing them as her parents' voices. "M-mom? Dad?" She rubbed her eyes dreamily, blinking a few times before meeting the soft gazes of her parents. A wide smile illuminated her face. "You're here. I thought you had meetings all week."

"Director Fury let us pay you a visit, since you seem to be over halfway through treatment."

"Really? I-...how long have I been here, exactly?"

"Just over two and a half weeks. You were diagnosed with PTSD, or "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder", but your little techie boy-friend told us your anxiety levels are much lower, and the nightmares you've been having are far less frequent." Clint smirked.

She rolled her eyes at him. "He's not my boyfriend."

He raised an eyebrow incredulously. "**Isn't** he?"

"Ain't nobody got time for that. Besides, we're friends. **Just** friends."

"Mmhmm, sure." He teased, poking her forehead. She stuck her tongue out at him.

Now it was Natasha's turn to roll her eyes.

"I swear, I'm in a family of two-year-olds."

"Don't act like you don't love it." The archer tossed her a wink.

Emily made a gagging sound and they all laughed, spending the next few hours with each other in a shared conversation that Jado failed to overhear from behind the doorway.

He wondered endlessly about what they were talking about; every so often their laughter would rise above the dull humming of the heart monitor next to Emily (there in case she had a panic attack), and then their voices would fade away again, hushed, audible yet indecipherable. It drove him nuts, but at least he knew the three of them were glad to be together again. If anyone could bring the light back in that girl's eyes, it would be her parents.

And as long as she was happy, he was happy too.


End file.
